


so dreamt thy sons on worlds destroyed

by penhaligon



Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8046205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhaligon/pseuds/penhaligon
Summary: He knows that he is at the mercy of this young one’s judgment, and though the New Architect had brought him back, Sunday remembers how capricious his mother had been. Idly, he wonders which is stronger – the nature of an Architect or the nature of a mortal.





	so dreamt thy sons on worlds destroyed

_So dreamt thy sons on worlds destroyed_  
_Whose dust allures our careless eyes,_  
_As, lit at last on alien skies,_  
_The meteor melts athwart the void._

\- George Sterling, "The Testimony of the Suns"

* * *

The first sensation is complex – a sense of dullness lifted and of things put to right at long last, overlaying a sudden and jarring sense of physical feeling that hits him all at once, and Sunday frowns, steadying himself.

His disorientation lasts only a few moments, as memory comes on the heels of physical form. He remembers the bitter taste of defeat, but it’s a distant, removed feeling. He remembers Nothing and his mother and father, and he tastes something just as bitter and the diametric opposite of distant. He doesn’t dwell, however, because the person standing before him looks somewhat like the mortal boy, Arthur, without any trace of mortality left, and Sunday remembers everything, up to a point.

The New Architect waits for him to speak, watching him calmly – or Sunday assumes as much, because the New Architect’s eyes are hidden behind tinted mortal eyeglasses and his expression is unreadable. Sunday takes a moment to gather himself, because he has not felt like this in millennia. There is a sharpness to everything, every thought, no longer dulled by insidious whispers in his mind. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be himself, to feel anything at all that isn't warped to some ruinous purpose.

“What did you do?” Sunday asks. They’re standing in the Elysium, which looks as it did before, except that it is free of the ravages of the battle that to Sunday took place only minutes ago. Beyond it, Sunday can see the beginnings of what looks like a newly made Incomparable Gardens. He wonders what has passed since his last memory. They are alone, as far as Sunday can tell.

“I remade you as you were before,” the New Architect says. Sunday can hear undertones of his mother’s power in the New Architect's voice, but it’s different from what Sunday remembers. Less cold. “But you’re free of the Will.”

It’s a giddy sensation, almost. The weight of the Will had made even his joys twisted and dull, and it's been long enough that Sunday hardly knows what to do with himself. He tilts his head and regards the New Architect curiously, noticing that the Atlas is tucked under one of the New Architect’s arms. “You are not.”

After a long moment, the New Architect shrugs. “I’m aware of that,” he says, and his soft voice has an acerbic edge.

“Why did you bring me back?” Sunday asks. He had fully expected his existence to cease in a more permanent fashion.

“It's in the interest of setting things right,” the New Architect answers. “As much as I’m able to.”

Sunday once again looks at him in curiosity, unable to understand the creature before him. “Why? You have nothing to atone for." There is no mortality left in the New Architect that he can see, and yet Sunday wonders. Sentimentality is such a mortal thing, after all.

“Neither do you,” the New Architect says. “Consider this a new start.”

 _But why,_ Sunday wants to ask again, though he doesn't think he'll get a straightforward answer. He doesn't understand why the New Architect had looked back and given him consideration, when there had been no obligation and no prior attachment, when they had been enemies. He is the Architect, after all… and again, Sunday wonders at the difference.

“I do have a question,” the New Architect says abruptly. Sunday thinks that perhaps this is the real reason, even as he is taken aback by the fact that the Architect of the universe would need to ask anything of him. “I am unable to… bring my mother back, as she was, without altering her.” For the first time, the New Architect’s smooth voice falters, hardens into something dangerous, and despite the fact that his eyes are concealed, he looks away for a moment. Sunday remembers that it is his own fault, and for the first time in a very long time, fear trickles down his spine. There is lingering resentment in the New Architect’s voice - some baser vengeful instinct tempered by reason. His predecessor had never possessed the latter, and Sunday is glad that he is facing _this_ Architect. “I know that.” The New Architect looks back at Sunday, and Sunday gets the sense that hidden eyes are boring into him. “But I’m not certain if the same… restrictions would apply to Denizens, if you – and your memory of them – were to assist me.”

It takes Sunday a moment to realize that the New Architect is proposing recreating the Denizens of the old House. It doesn’t make sense – he should already know the answer. But as Sunday stares at the New Architect, trying to figure him out, he realizes that the boy _does_ know. But perhaps he doesn’t entirely accept it, yet.

Such a mortal thing. And yet, it isn’t foreign to Sunday. There is something of mortality in him too, after all.

He shakes his head. “They would be similarly altered,” he says, carefully stepping around a direct mention of the New Architect’s late mother. He does not want to invite any more ire than what the New Architect is obviously already restraining. “Memory is not enough. Not even mine. Not even for Denizens.” Nothing save the mind of the Architect who originally created them could bring them back as they were. The only thing left of that mind is in the book tucked under the New Architect’s arm, presumably what allowed him to recreate Sunday and the Elysium and likely the universe beyond. Sentimentality, Sunday thinks, and he cannot find it in himself to be scornful of it. Sentimentality is what had allowed this boy to bring the House to its knees, however misguided that had been.

“I thought as much,” the New Architect says, and for all that he sounds impassive, Sunday thinks that there is disappointment in the words. And Sunday is surprised to find that he shares it, more than he would have thought possible. It’s such a strange thing, to feel again, but with it comes less pleasant sensations, too. Once again, Sunday’s eyes are drawn to the Atlas, and it’s all he can do not to glare at it, tasting bitterness again.

The New Architect notices. He moves his arm, and the book vanishes. The momentary silence that follows is what Sunday might describe as _awkward_ , until the New Architect shifts again, visibly relaxing. “I’m afraid your position has been taken,” he says, and his expression noticeably changes at last – he smiles.

Sunday frowns. “By whom?” Truthfully, he wouldn’t want it back, anyway… but still, it rankles. Just a bit.

“Suzy was eager for the job,” the New Architect answers, amused.

It takes Sunday a moment to remember who that is, which somewhat adds to the insult. “Your… general?” he asks in distaste.

This only increases New Architect’s amusement. “Yes,” he says, and the seriousness of his voice is clearly exaggerated and belied by the fact that he hasn’t stopped smiling. “She suggested that you could be her underling.”

Sunday scowls. “I would rather not.”

The New Architect’s smile fades at last. “I thought you might want to stay with the Gardens,” he says. “She said you don’t deserve it.”

Though the New Architect’s tone is light, Sunday grows still and watches him carefully. He knows that he is at the mercy of this young one’s judgment, and though the New Architect had brought him back, Sunday remembers how capricious his mother had been. Idly, he wonders which is stronger – the nature of an Architect or the nature of a mortal.

“I said there’s been enough dictating,” the New Architect continues at last, wholly unreadable. “You may choose what you want to do. Even if that means that you would rather go back to Nothing.”

Tired relief surges through Sunday. It has been a long time since he’s had the luxury of true choice, uncolored by malevolent influence, and he thinks of the Gardens and of how his love for them used to be wholesome. Perhaps it can be again. The idea of Nothing is tempting, but something of defiance moves within him at long last. It would feel like giving in, conceding to the one who'd ruined him, and he has had enough of that for now.

Sunday inclines his head, wondering again at the nature of the creature before him. “Thank you, Architect.”

The New Architect does not look enthused at the title. “Art,” he says. “That’s the name I seem to have acquired.”

“Art,” Sunday repeats uncomfortably, because it feels a little too familiar and because he isn’t sure what their standing is. The transition from enemies to… associates, Sunday supposes, had been jarring enough. But anyone and anything is better than his mother, Sunday thinks. They stand in the ruins of her work - they _are_ the ruins of her work - and yet it all seems less ruinous now. “Thank you,” Sunday says again, stiffly. “I would like to tend to my Gardens.”

The New Architect – Art – nods. “Then you will,” he says. “Though I would appreciate any assistance you could offer in rebuilding the House.”

Sunday nods in return, once again taking a look at the Elysium and at the bare bones of the Incomparable Gardens beyond. Some work has already been started, and he is still surprised to find that his mind turns towards it with _feeling_. He welcomes it. The Gardens look as if they are waiting for the right hand to shape them into something more; there is potential there, in what could be built now, after so many years of the House crumbling from within. But it is all still so empty and lonely, when once the Gardens and everything below them had teemed with life.

He feels a surge of bitterness again, for things lost. He welcomes that, too.

Looking more closely, Sunday finally notices that there _is_ some movement in the Gardens, and it takes him a moment to work out what it is. Art had mentioned his friend, of course. Others who had managed to survive, whom Art had managed to bring back. It changes the perception of the place into something a little less desolate.

But Sunday hopes that they will not be _too_ frequent of visitors.

“You will, of course, limit yourself to plants,” Art says casually, implicit and iron warning lurking underneath.

“Of course,” Sunday agrees. He cannot fault the New Architect for bitterness, and he knows better than to test that. In truth, he doesn’t believe that Art would let the nature of an Architect win. The mortal had surprised Sunday, surprised all of them, and he does not think that the immortal will be much different. But all the same, the last thing he wants to do is risk the fury of one such as that. Power is no longer his, here.

There is something freeing about that.

Art turns and looks out over the Gardens. “And the Elysium will be changed,” he says conversationally. “Something more comfortable. Modern, by mortal standards. Since I intend to live here.” He looks back at Sunday with the faintest of smiles. “You’ll have to get used to having an eyesore in the middle of your Gardens.”

Sunday doesn't restrain a sigh.


End file.
